Or perhaps, Gwen thought, her brain was malfunctioning. All of these last twelve days seemed to her to have passed in a sort of intoxicated haze. From Milan, she had wired Elma to come quickly—an edict obeyed even more quickly than Gwen had hoped; she’d spent only one more breathless night with Alex before Elma had appeared, anxious to know the cause of this early recall, and a bit put out, besides (although Gwen did not dare ask how Elma had been occupying herself that made her early return so much to be regretted).
Once revealed, their cause for recalling her had achieved the impossible: Elma had been rendered temporarily mute. And then, as astonishment had ebbed, she’d thrown herself into crisis mode. “Shall we bother with bribing an Italian priest? Oh, bosh, simply another mouth to tape shut. No, let us go to where we know our friends, and figure it all out there,” she’d decided. “We book tickets for London directly. Mr. Ramsey, go, go, go!”
It had occurred to Gwen that there was no point in bothering to make the marriage match Lady Milton’s dates. “What do we care?” she’d asked Alex, when Elma had finally turned her back long enough to give them an opportunity for private conference. “Will it matter, in Buenos Aires and New York, if people in London say we were traveling alone together before we wed?”
“It will matter in London,” he’d said. “And one day, it might matter to you.”
He would not listen to her arguments to the contrary. Indeed, he’d proved surprisingly amenable to all of Elma’s moralizing and marshaling, and his sisters’ besides. They had been waiting at St. Pancras, four days later—alerted by Elma’s wire that a “terrible tangle” caused by “two idiotic lovebirds” required their best efforts at reconciliation.
Gwen had predicted to Alex that at least one of his sisters would fall down from shock upon learning of the marriage plans. In reply, he’d merely smiled and said they might surprise her.
And indeed, upon hearing the news shortly after retrieving them from the station, Belinda had done no more than lift her brow and nod, while Caroline, with a cry, had thrown herself across the carriage to embrace Gwen and Alex in turn. “Well done,” she’d said to Alex, winking as she pulled away.
The trick was this: stirred by Lady Milton’s industrious hand, the news of the marriage had spread far and wide. A flurry of cards was appearing at the Beechams, all from acquaintances dying to learn the story. They needed a very influential person, then, to facilitate the procuring of the special license, perhaps even to twist an arm in fudging the date of issue; otherwise, news of its belated usage would become the season’s next scandal. “And Gwen has already provided two,” Elma said, “for everybody is saying now that she must have bribed Pennington into crying off so she could have Mr. Ramsey instead.”
While Alex’s connections spanned the government, he’d never had cause to befriend anybody connected to the church. And so the matter of the special license came down to Gerard.
The twins, together with Alex, broke the news to their brother as Gwen waited outside with Elma. In the hallway, all that could be heard of the moment of revelation was a clatter and a great thump.
“Oh dear,” Gwen murmured.
Elma patted her hand. “He will be your brother-in-law,” she said.
For a moment, Gwen could not tell if this was a caution against further criticism, or a caution against the marriage itself. And then came another crash. Elma’s hand closed firmly over hers. “One can see why Mr. Ramsey prefers to travel abroad,” she said, her smile pleasant, her voice steely.
Silence fell. And then a voice lifted—Lord Weston’s. Gwen strained to hear, but she could not make out the words.
A sharp female reply. That would be Belinda.
The door slammed. The twins came into the hallway, Belinda stalking, Caroline slumping. Even the feather in Caro’s hat was wilting. But her smile was bright when she said, “Only give them a moment. He is very glad to see you join the family, Gwen.”
“As well he should be,” Elma said coldly. “But I daresay he has an odd manner for expressing his joy.”
The twins exchanged a look. “Oh, it isn’t you,” Caroline said. “Only . . .”
“Only he is upset with Alex,” Belinda said flatly. “Alex never does take the straight path when a spiral or zigzag will do.”
“He is yelling at Alex?” Gwen could not imagine anyone daring to do so.
“Oh, indeed,” Belinda said. “And Alex is no doubt sitting back and smiling, and thereby taunting him onward.”
“Well, you cannot wish him to apologize,” Caroline said sharply. “Gerry in a mood is thoroughly intolerable. What a pompous boor he becomes!”
“Agreed,” Belinda said with a shrug. “But he’s more like a top than a bull, so he’ll wind down soon enough. In the meantime,” she added, taking a seat on the bench next to Gwen, “we will wait.”
Caroline, meanwhile, began to pace.
After a minute, the indistinct yelling paused. Belinda gathered her skirts to rise, and Caro’s face turned toward the hall.
The shouting resumed. Belinda subsided with a sigh, but Gwen felt her patience snap. She sprang to her feet and paced toward the study, ignoring the startled remarks that followed her. It was well and good to sit about politely if one meant to charm one’s brother-in-law, but she knew that Alex had little concern for such aims, and she herself had finished with meaningless courtesies weeks ago.
She held up her hand to the footman stationed by the entrance, then opened the door without announcing herself.
It was just as the twins had predicted: Lord Weston was on his feet, thundering, while Alex sat comfortably in a chair, fingers drumming on his knee, politely listening.
“—the top of beyond,” Lord Weston said.
“Yes,” said Alex. “I thoroughly agree. Are you done yet? They’re waiting.”
“Not until you admit that this is the last straw—”
“I am the last straw?” Gwen asked politely.
Lord Weston stuttered to a stop. Alex turned in the chair. “Ah, Gwen,” he said pleasantly. He came to his feet, crossing to catch up her hands and draw them, one by one, to his mouth. “Martyr,” he accused beneath his breath. “I thought you chucked your virtues some time ago. Save yourself and run.”
She laughed despite her nerves and might have replied, had Lord Weston not stalked up and sketched a very stiff bow. “Miss Maudsley,” he said. “Welcome to the family. My apologies for the truly unforgivable circumstances of this match. I pray you pardon him. I pray you pardon all of us for supporting such a rascal.”
Such was the fervor of his tone that she felt offended for Alex’s sake. “Forgive me if I take a very different view,” she said flatly. “I have always found your brother to be thoroughly admirable in every way.” Alex’s snort, she ignored. “I cannot understand why you judge him so harshly, particularly when—”
“Why? You cannot understand why?” The earl’s eyes bulged. “Dragging you off to Paris—landing you in such a situation—why, I pity you if you cannot imagine the why of it! I fear you will be in for an unpleasant surprise before your honeymoon even concludes.” Here he paused, turning a dull red. Perhaps he suddenly recalled the circumstances in which Lady Milton had discovered Gwen and his brother, and divined that the honeymoon would not hold as many surprises as it properly should. More gruffly he continued, “It has always been thus with him. I would have expected you to know this! Certainly you know how he chose to make his . . . living.” He nearly sneered the word. “And of course, there is the small matter of your brother—”
She cut him off, in a tone far colder than she had ever used with anyone. “It was by my own desire that we contracted to marry. I must conclude, then, that you either mistake me for a fool because I wish to marry him, or you mean to twit me now by speaking so outrageously although you don’t mean a word of it. Yes, he makes a living—a very fine one. Indeed, you will forgive me if my personal experience of men with inherited privileges leads me to believe that a man who works for greatness is far more trustworthy than one who is handed it at birth.”
Lord Weston opened his mouth to reply, but Alex spoke first. “Oh,” he said softly from behind her. “Do be careful with him, Gwen. He’s a bit more fragile than he looks. And not all these titled sorts are rotters.”
The earl’s glare transferred over her shoulder.
She crossed her arms. An apology was called for.
Lord Weston’s lips remained sealed.
“I do not think the earl so fragile as that,” she said grimly. Perhaps his siblings’ cosseting was all that ailed him. “By my calculation, sir, you owe Alex your thanks.”
“My . . . thanks.” He spoke as though the words were some foreign language, meaningless syllables on the tongue.
“Yes. He has done you a great favor. You were conned by a criminal. Alex has brought you the proof to see this man jailed, and your land returned to you.”
Lord Weston’s eyes were nearly the same shade as Alex’s, but did not have nearly the same effect. When they opened wide and his lips parted in surprise, he looked like a glassy-eyed fish, appalled to find himself on the butcher’s slab.
“Mm,” said Alex, taking her arm and shoving his free hand into his pocket. “Hadn’t gotten around to telling him that bit, Gwen.”
“Oh.” She felt her cheeks warm. “Dreadfully sorry.”
“No harm done,” Alex said. “What say, Gerry? Proof of Barrington’s unlawful ways in exchange for one small favor in the form of a quiet marriage license.”
Lord Weston assented, of course. But, so Gwen noted, he did not bother to thank his brother for saving him from the hands of a conman. Family, it seemed, was not always the idyll she had imagined.
Four days it took to procure the license, once Lord Weston turned his mind to it. As she stood now at the edge of the Cornelyses’ ballroom, safely anonymous behind her mask, with less than twelve hours until the appointed time of her marriage, she wondered again what she was doing here. She felt distant, curiously apart from the scene. She and Alex had come on the twins’ insistence, for no newlyweds, if not bound for their honeymoon, would hide from the London season. People might expect odd behavior of Alex, but not of Gwen. And so they would go, Alex had told her.
But why? Why were they bothering with these people?
The mask probably did not help her sense of detachment. She lifted it away as she searched the crowd for the Ramseys. Stares began to find her immediately. A balcony ran along one side of the ballroom, and an entire group of women craned over the rail to peer at her. These looks were not wholly malicious, but they were curious, prying; it would take only one misstep, in the days to come, to sway public opinion against her. Then what seemed, right now, like a romantic spectacle would become a sordid scandal of the kind that deserved condemnation, cold cuts, turned shoulders.
A month ago, she might have crumpled beneath the weight of such censure. Now it felt no more than annoying.
She did not want to live amongst these people.
Why were they here?
By noon tomorrow, she would be married to Alex Ramsey.
She spotted him, finally. He had removed his own mask and was walking straight toward her, but he had not spotted her yet. The sight of his profile as he looked over the crowd, his hawkish nose, the firm straightness of his body, filled her with something hot and covetous.
I want this.
Oh, yes, she did. She had never wished for anything more in her life than to be married to him—to make his laughter, his wit, his slyness, his ferocity, his protectiveness, his encouragement, his courage and determination, hers by right and by law.
But she did not believe for a moment that he loved her.
Oh, he told her so. His sisters told her so. Elma claimed she had known it all along, had seen it in how he’d looked at her when she’d not been paying attention. Balderdash. She wanted to believe it—she would even pretend to believe it tomorrow. But she knew him too well. She knew his secret: for all his wandering, his independence and his unorthodox ways, he took his responsibilities very seriously. He even borrowed others’ responsibilities, making them his own simply because he thought this sort of service was owed to those whom he loved. From the moment Lady Milton had spotted them together, there had been no question that he would offer for her. He had promised Richard to look after her. Marriage was the only option the situation had offered.
His eyes fixed on her. His expression changed. He sent her a smile so slow and tender that her lungs squeezed.
Maybe he loved her.
He started across the floor toward her. She held still, watching him approach. It was possible he loved her. He did not require her money. He’d had her virginity with no promises made or asked for.
He did not stop at a polite distance. He came directly into her, his hands closing on her waist. She resisted the urge to look up toward the balcony. Everyone thought them married, and these touches were permissible among married couples. That did not change the effect it would have: in a minute, if he did not release her, they’d make a spectacle so powerful that the balcony would probably collapse beneath the weight of the crowd craning over.
She put her hand over his. He offered her his trademark rogue’s smile. She understood now exactly what that smile signified. It was a personal promise of long, sweaty nights and no quarter given.
Her grip tightened over his by no conscious volition. If he loved her . . . then what couldn’t she do? What couldn’t the world show to her? What wasn’t possible?
“I am bored out of my skull,” he said. “Do you think we’ve put sufficient time into this purgatory?”
“We promised we would not leave until the twins did,” she reminded him.
His head tipped slightly. A new gleam entered his eye. “Would not leave the house,” he said.
Beneath her palm, his skin was hot, his fingers strong. The possibility in his suggestive smile made her pulse quicken. “Alex, we can’t . . .”
“Come,” he said, turning her toward the door. In her ear, he breathed, “Be a little wicked, Miss Maudsley.”
Here, indeed, was wickedness: she realized, as she followed him out of the ballroom and down the hall, that she had been dreaming of this while she’d wandered, lost, through the house. She knew exactly where they should go. She stepped ahead to lead him and he followed close on her heels, not speaking, nudging her when she paused, nipping at her ear and muddying her doubts when the curious glance of some masked passerby made her courage falter.
She stopped by the baize door, now standing shut, through which she had spied the open linen closet. Turning back to Alex on a great breath, she said, “I think this might work. Just inside, there’s a—”
He took her under the arms and put his mouth to hers as he backed her through the door. Some distant, rational part of her listened for the thump that spelled the door’s closure; the rest of her wits were already scattered beneath the driving pressure of his kiss. They had not kissed with this intent since Milan. There had been no opportunity. In the days since, she had started to wonder if the wildness and freedom she’d felt in his arms had been the product of an overfevered imagination, the wishful thinking of a woman afraid of slipping back into deadly, dulling comforts.
But she had not imagined it. His lips on hers made every part of her come alive. She pressed herself into him for more of it, then let him push her back against the wall, breathing encouragements into his mouth, urging him on to greater ferocity. Her nails caught in his shirt, beneath his shoulder blades, digging into the density of his muscle, daring it to try to resist her. His mouth slipped down her neck, teeth scraping, testing; he bit the place where her throat joined her shoulders, as if to hold her in place, when she wanted to be nowhere else.
She tasted his chin, his jaw, the skin which had been rough with stubble in Milan, now so smooth from the wick of a sharp-edged blade. His palm covered her breast, lifting it clear of her corset as he sucked the skin at the base of her throat, just inside the lacy neckline of the silver tissue gown she wore. She hoped he marked her. She wished he could make her somehow indelibly his; that they were still children so they could cut their fingers and mingle their blood and know this meant something. She longed for some transformation more lasting than that wrought by the law and his name, some visceral change he might effect in her so that anyone on the street with one glance would know she was his.
The fabric of her gown was so thin that she could feel the chafing of his thumb, now, the slight, sweet abrasion of his nail across her nipple, as though she were naked, and he, too. Flesh to flesh, pressing into each other, every doubt in her melting. I want this. God above, she wanted to be his.
His mouth closed over her nipple through the fabric, sucking strongly. It pulled a hot, sweet current from low in her belly; she ran her hands up and down his broad back, restless, impatient, ready to jump from her skin if he did not take her now. This was mad, insane. A servant could come along at any moment.
The thought cleared her brain a little. She had no desire to kowtow to convention any longer, but decency was a noble concept all the same.
She groped blindly along the wall behind her. The door was there somewhere, she knew it. Her fingers closed on nothing. “Wait,” she panted.
“No,” he said, and bit down lightly on her nipple, startling a low, hot sound from her throat.
“Someone—Alex, someone could come. We should . . . stop.”
He lifted her by her bottom, pinning her between his body and the wall. “Yes,” he agreed in her ear. “Someone could come.”
A hot, dark thrill ran through her. She understood, all at once, that games had a place in this matter, too. But . . . a strand of fear intruded, constricting her ardor. “Alex—” She wasn’t ready for such things. Not yet. “Please,” she whispered.
He hesitated only a fraction of a moment before drawing her a pace down the dark, narrow passage. She heard the click of a latch, and the smell of the linen closet flooded the space: starch and lemon and lavender. His hand at her waist guided her inside; he pulled the door shut and total darkness enfolded them.
His lips touched her ear. His voice was soft and so, so low. “You’re right,” he murmured. His hand smoothed over her bottom, tickled the tops of her thighs. “This is much better. Anything might happen in such darkness.”
The shiver that passed through her, the current of want that powered it, dried her throat to dust. She turned blindly for his mouth, and he ran his tongue along her lower lip. His hands slid slowly, slowly, down her arms. Encircling her wrists, he pulled them behind her, his silent squeeze an order: she would leave them there.
His mouth returned to hers now, his kiss slow and deliberate and thorough as she stood still, all the pleasure points in her body pulsing ever stronger, the imagined restriction of her arms somehow feeding this desire: standing in the dark, blind, willingly trusting him. “What do you want?” he whispered.
“You,” she said.
Without warning, his finger brushed lightly between her legs, making her jump and whimper. He stroked again more firmly, rubbing almost contemplatively at the juncture of her thighs. “What do you want for yourself?”
She frowned. “You.”
He laughed, a low, sexual sound. Between her legs, his light, teasing strokes were not enough; the skirt, while thin, impeded his touch. She strained toward him, and he said against her mouth, “Shh. In a moment.”
He pressed harder now, reminding her body of how empty it was, of the ways he could solve that, the ways he could satisfy her. But she did not want to wait anymore. Even as his hand rubbed and goaded her and the hunger built, that strange panic began to seep back into her thoughts. Take me, Alex. Was it so easy for him to wait? Did he not burn the same way she did?
She reached down and laid a palm on his erection, and when he took a sharp breath, no doubt to chide her for her insurrection, she said to him, “Shh,” and cupped him more firmly. She wanted this. She needed this. His hands curved around her bottom, clenching and squeezing her, lifting her against him, against her own hand. She went on her tiptoes to help him, to help them both. “Have me,” she whispered as she rubbed against him. Have me. Her fingers learned the catch on his trousers and flipped it open.
His cock sprang into her hand, hard and full and ready. He was drawing up her skirts now, pulling them up in great handfuls. Their mouths met and their tongues tangled as his palm met her stocking and smoothed up past her garter, finding the bare flesh of her thigh beneath her thin silk drawers. His other hand he lifted to his mouth; she heard a wet sound, and then he placed his finger to her quim, to the throbbing spot that leapt at his touch and made her swallow another garbled moan. For a moment, as he rubbed her and she writhed, the only sound was of their fevered breathing and the whispering shush of her gown.
She pushed against him, one final demand. His hand slipped back to her thigh, lifting her leg and placing her knee over his hip bone. The head of his cock, startlingly hot, brushed her entrance. “Yes,” she breathed. “Now.”
He slid his hand beneath her drawers and cupped her bare bottom in one large hand, while the other he laid across her back, his hand cradling her head. And then, very slowly, he pushed inside.
Twelve days. He was larger than she’d remembered. She could feel her body’s brief resistance before she remembered how to take him, so broad and blunt, demanding nothing but submission. Very gradually he pushed into her, so gradually, as though every infinitesimal fraction required its own moment of decision, of request and consent. He shifted in the darkness—using the shelves to brace himself, she realized, while he used his own bone and muscle to support her. And then he pushed once more and seated himself completely inside her.
Her head fell back into his palm. She felt pinned, held down, immobilized as he thrust into her steadily, aggressively, filling her without hesitation, his face a darker shadow over hers in the darkness. If the closet had been smaller, if he could have held her even more closely in his grip, she would only have welcomed it. Make me yours, she thought as she gripped him to her. Never let me go.
Her climax came over her quickly, and as fiercely as the emotions in her breast. She clenched around him and he gave a soft, low moan in reply, and then pushed into her harder, and harder yet, and set up a steady, pounding rhythm that made her own satisfaction extend, spreading out in ripples and quivers, ebbing from her like a sweet dream as he sucked in his breath and came.
Afterward, his lips turned into her neck and he spoke very quietly. “Not purgatory after all,” he said. “Not with you here. Idiotic of me to think otherwise, even for a moment.”
And deep inside her, that small, cold kernel of doubt began to melt. Against his forehead, she smiled.
They returned to the ballroom separately, Gwen going first. Her mission, so they had agreed, was to find the twins and pull rank: as the bride-to-be, she was certainly entitled to demand an early night’s sleep.
She paused on the edge of the floor, mask now atop her head in a strategic decision—to disguise, or account for, the disorder of her hair. The crush seemed to have grown even thicker, and the air now held the distinct tang of sweat and alcohol. The Cornelyses must be overjoyed; no host could declare his party a success until the air began to grow foul.
“So the bastard finally saw it through.”
So absorbed was she in scouring the crowd that the familiar voice barely registered on her at first.
And then she stiffened and glanced sidelong.
Trent stood beside her. He wore a mask, but she could not mistake him. He had a small birthmark at the corner of his mouth, very distinctive, the shape of the African continent.
The last time they had spoken, she had been engaged to him, still. After the note he’d sent breaking it off, she had not wished to hear his voice again, much less give him the honor of hearing hers.
She looked behind her for Alex, but if he had come back already, he had entered through the far doors. He could not be far off, though; they were meant to find each other again as soon as possible. He had suggested this. He did not wish to be parted from her: that was the only conclusion she could draw from his suggestion.
She smiled. She would pretend as though she hadn’t heard Trent’s remark, whatever on earth he’d meant by it.
But he had the bad taste to speak again. “I would pay good money to be with Pennington when he hears this news,” he said.
Now no doubt remained that he was speaking to her. She bit her lip very hard.
He laughed suddenly. “Why, you have no idea, do you?” he asked. “You should see your face right now. What did you think—that I broke it off of my own free will?”
She would not give him the satisfaction. She would not.
“You always were a bit thick.” Incredulity flooded his voice. “But affection aside, you knew how badly I needed your money. I can’t believe you never wondered.”
She whirled on him. “Sir, I do not know why you are addressing me, but you will cease to do so at once.”
His brows lifted high, clearing the edge of his black domino. “Of course. Do accept my felicitations on your marriage, madam.” Sweeping her a low bow, he turned on his heel, checkered cape swirling, and walked off.
She stared after him.
He was lying, of course.
But to what end?
A hand touched her arm. She gasped and whirled. Only Alex. Alex. He was smiling at her, but a frown quickly overshadowed the smile. “What is it?” he asked, glancing past her, searching the crowd. In vain, of course. Everybody was masked. Not everyone knew a man well enough to pick him out by a small birthmark. Perhaps only fiancées and wives could do so. Those who had laid a claim, a personal claim, of their own volition, and had cause to learn such small things.
Three million pounds. Alex’s hair was rumpled—from her fingers, as only she knew; from her kisses, from the moans she had breathed into his hair just now.
She had wondered—had raged—had asked herself again and again what could have driven a bankrupt man away from three million pounds. Had asked herself what was wrong with her.
Nothing. That had been her answer, in the end.
Everything about you is right.
“What is it?” He searched her eyes, his own so light, such a light and clear blue, that one could almost convince oneself they were transparent, truly the windows into his brain and heart and soul. His hand was gripping her arm; she did not know when he had taken hold of her. “Gwen, what is it?”
She could not believe this of him. She cleared her throat. She meant to speak strongly, to indicate with her tone how absurd she found Trent’s claim.
Instead, what came out was a whisper. “Was it you?”
At the top of the room, the orchestra was sawing into some wild melody, a reel, a schottische, something that made the crowd squeal, sparking a sudden rush into the dance, crushing bystanders back toward the walls, elbows and heels jostling and knocking her like so much flotsam into Alex’s chest. She took a step back, stamping on someone’s hem, eliciting a squeal that she ignored.
He did not answer her. He was staring at her with a look she could not decipher. He was so good at impassivity when it suited him.
She squared her shoulders. “Alex.” He lifted his hand as if to touch her cheek. “Are you the reason they jilted me?”
His hand paused, a hair’s breadth from her face.
He did not need to answer. The muscle in his jaw replied for him. He was clenching his teeth to bite something back. So much for fearlessness in the face of unpleasant truths.
So much for impassivity, too. At least she had that much satisfaction.
She turned on her heel. He caught her elbow and pulled her back. “Not Pennington,” he said. “I have no idea what happened with Pennington. There was nothing in his history, nothing in his relationships that would account for it—”
“In his history?” She gaped at him. “Alex, did you—did you set spies on my fiancés? As if . . . as if they were your business competitors?”
His hand fell away. “I made a promise to your brother,” he said flatly. “I did what I could to honor it.”
Disbelieving laughter scraped out of her throat. “Oh yes, so I see. You spied on these men—”
“I did nothing,” he said tersely. “I hired private investigators. Pennington turned out to be unobjectionable. Seemed to be, at any rate. Trent did not. So I intervened.”
“Intervened.” She shook her head slowly. “Intervened. You mean that rather than coming to me, sharing with me this mysterious knowledge of his . . . his objectionable nature—objectionable in your view, at least—”
“Syphilis,” he said curtly. “If your view differs, you are standing in a very peculiar place.”
“I don’t care what it was!” Although, God above, that did explain his sickly appearance, and perhaps his indiscretion, too. She would spare a prayer for him tonight. “You did not come to me. You did not tell me!”
“I couldn’t—” He cursed. “I couldn’t be sure that you would . . .”
“Would believe you? Would show good sense? Would value myself enough to avoid sacrificing my health for a title?” She scoffed. “God above, you must think me the stupidest woman on the planet.”
“No.” His voice was flat now. “But could you blame me if I did?” So unapologetically he spoke. “Your choices in men do not recommend your intellect.”
Temper whipped through her. “Yes, so I see. How very stupid I must be. How else have I ended up engaged to marry you? A manipulative bully who sabotaged my wedding so you—so you could . . . what? How did you stand to gain from this? Or is it so obvious? I say, Alex—have you been having financial difficulties?” She heard the ugliness creeping into her voice, but she had no interest in dispelling it. Dear God—only minutes ago, she had been begging him to take her. To have her. This man who thought her too stupid to decide for herself what and whom she wanted! “You needn’t make the greatest sacrifice,” she said. “I am glad to offer my brother’s dear friend a loan. Marriage is not required.”
He looked now as cold and disinterested as though he were disputing with a stranger. “I assure you, Gwen, I do not require your aid. Unlike some, I plan very carefully before I enter rash ventures.”
“Yes, so you do,” she agreed. “And tell me, what does your careful planning entail? Threats? Blackmail? What did you use to drive Trent off?”
“He did not wish certain news to be made public,” he said evenly. “So I did him the favor of keeping it private.”
“Blackmail,” she whispered. She put her hand to her mouth to trap a laugh, but it came out anyway—wild, a little unbalanced. “Do you know what I felt—what I thought—how I doubted myself afterward! And none of it had anything to do with me! All that time . . . and then, when it happened again—I was so sure with Pennington—”
“Gwen.” He seized her by the shoulders, and for a shocked moment she thought he would shake her. But his fingers merely pressed her upper arms, each finger asserting itself distinctly, as if he was trying to imprint the pattern in her flesh. “Gwen,” he said, leaning in, perhaps so his quieter tone would carry amidst the revelry around them, “I swear on everything I hold dear—my sisters, my nieces, Richard, you—that I had nothing to do with the viscount.”
She stared at him, wondering desperately if she could trust his word.
How amazing. Only minutes ago, she’d been wondering if he could love her.
How sad that she found him easier to credit on the matter of the viscount.
“I believe you,” she said slowly. She tried to pull free, but his hands tightened once more. His expression was beginning to frighten her. He looked—grim, his mouth tense, his eyes hooded. As though he was folding in on himself, shuttering, shutting himself away.
“What does this change?” he asked. He spoke so flatly and rapidly that it took a moment to work out that he was asking her a question.
He was asking if the wedding was to be canceled.
She felt a pang of loss, a flash of panic, the sort of hot, deep spark that created firestorms. Alex, she thought. Smile at me. Tell me you love me.
On the heels of this thought, which her lips even opened to speak, came a lash of anger.
Again and again and again. How many times would she repeat her mistakes? Lie to me. Tell me what I wish to hear. Sing me sweet lies.
“Will you be at the altar tomorrow?” she asked. Her voice came out so coldly. It seemed to belong to some other woman, who never cried.
“Yes,” he said. His eyes never left hers. “I do not break a promise.”
Now, no talk of love. Now the talk turned to responsibility. “No,” she said. “You never do break a promise, I suppose. But there is always a first time. I encourage you to consider the novelty.”
“Gwen.” He spoke slowly and emphatically. “This is God’s own truth: I will leave the altar after you do.”
“I suppose we’ll find out.” She pulled her mask back over her face and turned on her heel.
This time, he did not try to stop her from leaving.